A few minutes later, Avery pulled his rental past the long rows of gasoline pumps and into the crowded truck stop parking lot, filled with eighteen-wheelers of all colors and designs and license plates from a dozen states. The truck stop’s main building had an enormous fiberglass replica of an armadillo with wings perched on its roof. Next to the main building was a restaurant with a pay phone off to the side. Avery climbed out of his car and made his way to the occupied payphone. The air was filled with the smell of diesel fumes, exhaust, and mesquite smoke.
“Hi there, handsome.” A thin woman wearing a denim mini skirt, white tube top, and tall red heels stood in the pay phone booth, watching Avery as he approached. “My name is Fantasia Velvet. What’s yours?” she asked with a playful growl.
“I’m not giving you my name. Now get out of the phone booth. I have an urgent call to place.”
“Fantasia just can’t do that, sugar,” the tall woman, who wore a peroxide-blonde wig, purred. “She’s waiting for a very important call from a client.”
“I don’t care if you’re waiting for a call from the President. Out, now.”
“Don’t be grumpy, sugar. You know, Fantasia Velvet, that’s my stage name, although sometimes I use Fantasia Sweetcream. It just depends on my mood. Anyways, Fantasia provides commercial services for the road-weary at very competitive prices. You interested in some company? You look awfully tired. Fantasia knows just how to put a little pep in a man’s step. Particularly a strong, handsome man like yourself.”
“Not interested,” Avery replied as he took Fantasia by the arm and pulled her out of the booth.
“Ouch!” Fantasia cried as she stumbled out of the pay phone. “Take it easy, baby. Bruises are bad for business.” As Avery stepped past Fantasia and climbed into the booth, he noticed that she had an extraordinarily large Adam’s apple, and he thought he might have caught a glimpse of dark facial stubble underneath her heavily caked makeup. Avery fished in his fanny pack for some change. Finding only a quarter and a nickel, he inserted the quarter into the phone and began dialing a number from a wrinkled piece of paper.
“Can I at least bum a cigarette, baby?” Fantasia asked as Avery pounded the numbers of the keypad.
“No. It’s a filthy habit,” Avery replied.
“Sugar,” Fantasia said, “you can’t imagine all the filthy habits Fantasia has. Sure you don’t want a date?”
“No,” Avery said as he listened to the instructions to deposit another seventy-five cents in order to place his call. “Can you make change for a dollar?” the frustrated Avery asked the heavily perfumed woman as he extracted his quarter from the phone box.
“Fantasia only makes change when services are rendered,” Fantasia said as she reached up to stroke Avery’s crazy mane of hair with her long fake nails.
“Get off me, you whore!” Avery shouted as he batted away her hand.
“Don’t you go calling me names, you fat bastard!” Fantasia said as she stood defiantly with her large hands on her hips. “Fantasia’s a lady, and she’ll be treated as such.”
“Whatever,” Avery muttered as he stormed past Fantasia and into the truck stop’s restaurant.
“Oh, don’t go away mad, baby,” Fantasia called to Avery. “I’ll be here all day and all night if you change your mind.” She blew a kiss after him.
The Art Deco–style diner was filled with a couple of dozen truckers and locals. Avery took a stool at the counter next to two truck drivers harassing the waitress.
“Hey, Maddie,” shouted the larger of the two truck drivers to the short, feisty brunette behind the counter. “How about you and me go on a date tonight?”
“Big Lou,” Maddie said as she turned to face the burly truck driver, “even if you weren’t married the answer would be the same. Hell, no!”
“Aw, come on, Maddie,” Big Lou replied. “They don’t call me Big Lou for nothing.”
“Pound salt, you jackass,” Maddie said as she refilled his coffee.
“But Maddie, my wife just cut me back to one piece of ass a week. I’m dying, I tell you.”
“Hate to be the one to break the bad news to you, Big Lou,” Maddie replied. “But there’s half a dozen other truckers in this restaurant she’s cut down to one piece of ass a week also.”
“Snap!” the skinny trucker sitting next to Big Lou cried out as he convulsed in laughter. “She done busted you good, Big Lou.”
“Shut up, Ennis,” Big Lou said to his friend. “And what the hell does ‘snap’ mean, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Ennis replied as his laughter subsided. “I just seen it on the TV. Think it means you got busted. Just like last week when that lot lizard surprised you with her package.”
“Shut up, Ennis!” Big Lou said again as he slapped the back of the skinny trucker’s head, knocking his mesh hat to the floor in the process. “I told you not to mention that!”
“I told you there was a reason she only dances at the topless joint and not the all-nude place,” Ennis said as he picked up his hat.
“Ennis,” Maddie said. “Does your wife know that you boys hang out at those places?”
“No, she don’t,” replied Ennis sheepishly. “But I can’t help it if I enjoy supporting single mothers.” He and Big Lou laughed heartily.
“The both of you are disgusting,” said Maddie as she refilled Ennis’ coffee cup.
“Excuse me, good woman,” Avery said to Maddie. “May I please have change for a dollar?”
“Only if you buy something, mister,” Maddie said as she used a damp rag to clean the counter in front of Avery. “Rule number five,” she said as she pointed to the hand painted sign hanging from the door to the kitchen behind her. Avery looked at the sign. Rule number five read CHANGE PROVIDED FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY. It was above rule number six—NO SPITTING—and below rule number four—NO LOT LIZARDS ALLOWED INSIDE.
“You should try the barbecue, mister,” Maddie said. “It’s almost the best in the state. Won all kinds of runner-up awards.” Avery viewed the numerous trophies and ribbons that lined a long shelf above the kitchen door.
“No, thanks,” said Avery. “Do you carry Pepsi products?”
“Sure do,” Maddie replied.
“I’ll have a Mountain Dew, then,” Avery said.
“I mean we got Pepsi. Regular and diet.”
“Damn it,” Avery swore. “Fine, regular Pepsi.”
“Coming right up,” Maddie said as she turned and went to the soda fountain.
“Hey there, partner,” Big Lou said to Avery. “What the hell is that thing strapped to your waist?” Avery ignored the brawny trucker as Maddie returned with his soda.
“How much I owe you?” asked Avery.
“Dollar twenty-five,” said Maddie.
“Perfect,” said Avery as he handed her two wadded-up one-dollar bills from his fanny pack. Maddie fished in her change belt for some quarters and placed three of them on the counter.
“I’m talking to you,” Big Lou said to Avery as he stood from his stool. “We don’t wear them fanny purses in this part of Texas.” Just at that moment, Fantasia poked her head into the restaurant.
“Why hey, Big Lou,” Fantasia called out. “You know, you still got a credit with Fantasia. We didn’t get to finish up last time.”
“Hey you, get out of here!” Maddie yelled. “Rule number four!”
“Why, I’ll kill you, you freak show!” Big Lou yelled as he started for the door.
“Anyone needing commercial services?” Fantasia called out quickly into the restaurant. “Fantasia’s the best! Just ask Big Lou!” she added ducking back out the door and scurrying as fast as her high heels would carry her across the truck stop parking lot, Big Lou in hot pursuit, screaming obscenities. Avery scooped his quarters up from the linoleum counter and headed for the door.
“What?” Maddie called out. “No tip?”
Avery ignored her and walked to the phone booth, this time occupied by a local rancher.
�
��I need to use the phone,” Avery yelled as he banged on the phone booth door.
“I’ll be done it a minute,” the rancher said as he cupped the receiver in his hand. Avery picked his fingernails impatiently as he waited. A few minutes later the rancher hung up the phone and exited the booth.
“All yours, partner,” said the rancher as he shuffled past Avery. Avery climbed in the booth and inserted a quarter. Banging out the phone number, he waited for the message to insert additional change before dumping three more quarters into the phone. He could hear the phone ringing.
“You have reached the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia headquarters,” the recorded message began. “Please leave your name and a short message after the beep. And don’t forget to place your order for your very own ‘What Would Sam Houston Do?’ wristband. Supplies are limited. Beep.”
“This is Avery Bartholomew Pendleton of Austin, Texas,” Avery began. “This message is for one Private Zulu. I made an earlier departure than I thought, and with one minor mechanical delay behind me, I’m making better time than I expected. I also failed to consider the change of time zone in your corner of the state. I’ll be there to autopsy the specimen at six rather than eight. If you aren’t there, I’ll begin without you. Full stop.” He hung up the receiver and climbed into his car. Driving through the truck stop’s parking lot, he noticed Fantasia sitting on top of one the semis’ trailers, kicking her red heels back and forth at the infuriated Big Lou, too fat to climb up to the top of truck, screaming and shaking his fist at her from below.
“Come back now, you hear,” Fantasia yelled to Avery as she blew him a kiss. “Forgot the rest, ’cause Fantasia’s the best! Ain’t that right, Big Lou?” she asked as she lifted her denim mini skirt to reveal her lack of panties. Smiling seductively, Fantasia Velvet flashed the enraged trucker her man goods.
• • •
The traffic noise along the now busy highway woke El Barquero from his restless slumber. He placed the pistol he had slept with on the nightstand next to the motel bed. Sharp pain throbbed in his side where the shotgun blast had partially impacted. Leaning forward on the bed, he gingerly probed the area where the sutures had closed the buckshot wounds. Standing up from the bed, he walked into the motel room’s small bathroom and removed the bandages from his midriff. Examining the puncture wounds, he made sure the sutures had held. Assured they were still in place, he rebound his midsection with clean gauze and bandages.
Turning back into the motel room, he scooped up his black clothes and put them on. Pulling a thin black leather jacket from his rucksack, he slowly put it on. He felt the sutures pulling as he slipped his arms through the sleeves. Zipping the jacket halfway up, he checked himself in the mirror to make certain the wound and bandages didn’t show. El Barquero walked to the motel room’s closet. Opening the door, he stared for a moment at the dead man resting on the floor, his brown sample case still sitting in his lap. El Barquero reached behind the man and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. Taking the few bills he found, he tossed the dead man’s wallet back into the closet and closed the door. Gathering his silver case, rucksack, and plastic bag containing the used towel and bandages, now stiff with dried blood, he placed them on the bed. He retrieved his pistol from the nightstand and tucked it into his waistband. Finally, he took the two curved hand scythes from his rucksack and tucked them into his belt in the small of his back. El Barquero threw the rucksack over one shoulder and picked up the bag of waste and silver case full of money and headed to the door. Pulling the curtains aside, he glanced in both directions down the second-floor outdoor hallway. Throwing the security chain and lock, he made his way for his car. He still had a shipment to retrieve.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Showdown
Avery’s rental car rattled down the rutted gravel drive on the outskirts of Tornillo. The car’s stiff, temporary spare tire was doing little to absorb the bumps. Pulling to a stop outside a cinderblock building with a corrugated metal roof, he viewed the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia sign out front. Ignoring the sign’s warning that survivors will be prosecuted, he shut off the car’s engine and gathered his autopsy reference manual and antique scalpel. Placing the scalpel in his fanny pack, Avery made his way to the front door, squinting his eyes against the dust and sand blowing in the gusty Texas wind.
“Private Zulu!” Avery yelled over the wind as he pounded on the headquarters’ front door. Getting no reply, he tried the door handle. It was locked. Checking his watch, Avery realized it might be several more hours before Private Zulu showed up. He didn’t feel like waiting. Avery looped his way around the building past three orange ATVs that appeared to have been attacked by a rogue graffiti artist wielding a black shoe polish applicator. Climbing over the scattered debris and weaving past several abandoned oil drums, he checked for another way in.
In the back of the building, he located a ragged window screen that appeared to be loose. Pulling the screen from the windowsill, he pressed the sliding glass windowpane upwards. It was unlocked. Hurriedly, he opened the window as wide as it would go. It was just enough for the portly Avery to wedge himself through. Looking around, Avery spotted two wooden pallets. Stacking them at the base of the window, he stood on them as he tried to climb headfirst through the open window. Leaning in and holding the heavy autopsy manual out in front of him, he squeezed his upper body through the opening. When he was halfway through, the fanny pack resting underneath his bulbous gut caught itself on the windowsill. Not able to slide forward anymore with the fanny pack anchoring him in place, he tried extracting himself backward from the window, but holding the heavy manual in his hands, he found he couldn’t move that way, either.
Beginning to panic, as the awkward position was making it increasingly difficult to breathe, Avery realized he had no choice but to drop the large book into the room and use his hands to pry himself free. The book landed in the room with a thud as Avery used his hands to rock himself back and forth, his pudgy face beginning to turn scarlet from lack of oxygen. On his third try, Avery felt himself finally tipping forward. With one last swing, he somersaulted into the room, landing with a loud thump on the floor. Avery lay there until he got his wind back. Climbing to his feet, he picked up his book and went to search for the light switch. Clicking on the light, he noticed the room was bare except for a few closets on one side of the room. As he went to explore the rest of the vacant headquarters, he placed his reference manual on a rectangular folding table in the building’s main room.
“Okay, Private Zulu,” Avery mumbled. “Where the hell is my damn chupacabra?”
Avery noticed a doorway that appeared to lead to some kind of mess hall. Entering the kitchen area, he found a large refrigerator next to a walk-in deep freeze. Avery opened the refrigerator, praying that his precious cargo would be there and not frozen solid in the deep freeze. Immediately, the enormous bundle of silver duct tape taking up the entire bottom shelf of the fridge caught his attention.
Lifting the stiff, heavy bundle, he carried it into the main room and set it on the table. With nervous anticipation, Avery removed the scalpel from his fanny pack and began to cut through the overlapping layers of tape. The antique scalpel, with less than a razor-sharp edge, took considerable effort on Avery’s part to pierce the multiple layers of tape and blue plastic ground cloth underneath. Eventually, Avery was able to open an eight-inch slit in the bundle. Pulling the parcel’s wrapping apart with his fingers, he gazed in rapture at the skull of his elusive chupacabra. Stiff with rigor mortis, the animal’s lips had receded to reveal fearsome-looking fangs. A grotesque tongue hung out of the side of its mouth. Avery’s eyes widened as he examined the creature’s smooth dark skin and canine skull that matched all the research that he’d done on chupacabras over the preceding months. Convinced he had just reached one of the greatest peaks in cryptozoology, Avery punched his hand in the air, pointing his scalpel to the heavens abov
e.
“Kiss my butt, Darwin!” Avery exclaimed. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” he cried as he did a ridiculously poor version of the cabbage patch dance. “Yes, baby! Yes!”
“No,” replied the sinister, deep voice from behind him. Avery froze. “Turn around,” the menacing voice ordered. Avery slowly turned and faced the biggest, most evil-looking man he had ever seen. Avery trembled at the sight of his dark eyes. It didn’t help matters that the incredibly muscular man was pointing a silenced pistol at him.
“How did you get in here?” Avery asked.
“The same way you did,” El Barquero replied. “Now, where’s the shipment?”
“The what?” Avery nervously replied.
“From last night in the desert,” El Barquero said as he leveled the pistol directly at Avery’s face. “Three bundles, wrapped in burlap.”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I’m not a member of this militaristic fraternity,” Avery stammered. “I’m just here to pick up this specimen. It’s a very significant scientific find. One of a kind.”
El Barquero looked at the head of the strange-looking animal wrapped in silver tape on the table. He swung his pistol from Avery to the animal and fired a single shot into middle of its body. The bullet left a perfect hole in the duct tape outer wrapping; the smell of gunpowder filled the room.
“It’s a coyote,” El Barquero growled.
“You son of bitch!” Avery spat as he grabbed the silver-wrapped bundle and clutched it to his breast. “You might as well burn the Shroud of Turin or paint a mustache on the Mona Lisa. I won’t let you desecrate this international treasure.”
“Find my shipment.”
“I told you, I don’t know where it is,” Avery replied as he cuddled his rotting, mangy coyote corpse, shielding it from the imposing man’s aim.
“Two minutes,” said El Barquero as he leveled the gun again at Avery’s head. “Start looking.”
The Chupacabra: A Borderline Crazy Tale of Coyotes, Cash & Cartels (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 1) Page 23
